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terça-feira, 25 de junho de 2013

I fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen,
waiting to take me up. But not only was there no Constable there, but no
discovery had yet been made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in
getting the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put
upon the kitchen door—step to keep him out of the dust—pan — an article into
which his destiny always led him sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously
reaping the floors of her establishment.

“And where the deuce ha’ you been?” was Mrs. Joe’s
Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.

I said I had been down to hear the Carols. “Ah! well!”
observed Mrs. Joe. “You might ha’ done worse.” Not a doubt of that, I thought.

“Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and (what’s
the same thing) a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear
the Carols,” said Mrs. Joe. “I’m rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s
the best of reasons for my never hearing any.”

Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the
dust—pan had retired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with
a conciliatory air when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her eyes were
withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as
our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper. This was so much her normal
state, that Joe and I would often, for weeks together, be, as to our fingers,
like monumental Crusaders as to their legs.

We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg
of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome
mince—pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat
not being missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive
arrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of breakfast;
“for I an’t,” said Mrs. Joe, “I an’t a—going to have no formal cramming and
busting and washing up now, with what I’ve got before me, I promise you!”

So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two
thousand troops on a forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took
gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the
dresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and tacked a
new flowered—flounce across the wide chimney to replace the old one, and uncovered
the little state parlour across the passage, which was never uncovered at any
other time, but passed the rest of the year in a cool haze of silver paper,
which even extended to the four little white crockery poodles on the
mantelshelf, each with a black nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and
each the counterpart of the other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but
had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and
unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some
people do the same by their religion.

My sister having so much to do, was going to church
vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe
was a well—knit characteristic—looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he
was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing
that he wore then, fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that
he wore then, grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his
room, when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit
of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general
idea that I was a young offender whom an Accoucheur Policemen had taken up (on
my birthday) and delivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the
outraged majesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being
born, in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality, and
against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I was taken to
have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a kind of
Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my limbs.

Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a
moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside, was
nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever
Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled
by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the
weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful
enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged
to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read
and when the clergyman said, “Ye are now to declare it!” would be the time for
me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being
sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to
this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.

Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us;
and Mr. Hubble the wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe’s
uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well—to—do corn—chandler in
the nearest town, and drove his own chaise—cart. The dinner hour was half—past
one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed,
and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other
time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not
a word of the robbery.

The time came, without bringing with it any relief to
my feelings, and the company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a
large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of;
indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only give him
his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed that if
the Church was “thrown open,” meaning to competition, he would not despair of
making his mark in it. The Church not being “thrown open,” he was, as I have
said, our clerk. But he punished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out
the psalm — always giving the whole verse — he looked all round the congregation
first, as much as to say, “You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with
your opinion of this style!”

I opened the door to the company — making believe that
it was a habit of ours to open that door — and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle,
next to Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B., I was
not allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.

“Mrs. Joe,” said Uncle Pumblechook: a large
hard—breathing middle—aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring
eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he
had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to; “I have brought you,
as the compliments of the season — I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry
wine — and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.”

Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a
profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles
like dumb—bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied,
“Oh, Un — cle Pum — ble — chook! This IS kind!” Every Christmas Day, he
retorted, as he now retorted, “It’s no more than your merits. And now are you
all bobbish, and how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence?” meaning me.

We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and
adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and apples, to the parlour; which was a
change very like Joe’s change from his working clothes to his Sunday dress. My
sister was uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally
more gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I remember
Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp—edged person in sky—blue, who held a
conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr. Hubble — I don’t
know at what remote period — when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr
Hubble as a tough high—shouldered stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance,
with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw
some miles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.

Among this good company I should have felt myself,
even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was
squeezed in at an acute angle of the table—cloth, with the table in my chest,
and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak
(I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the
drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the
pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not have
minded that, if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn’t leave me
alone. They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to point the
conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into me. I might
have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly
touched up by these moral goads.

It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle
said grace with theatrical declamation — as it now appears to me, something
like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third — and
ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful. Upon
which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice,
“Do you hear that? Be grateful.”

“Especially,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “be grateful, boy,
to them which brought you up by hand.”

Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with
a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, “Why is it that
the young are never grateful?” This moral mystery seemed too much for the company
until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, “Naterally wicious.” Everybody
then murmured “True!” and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and
personal manner.

Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if
possible) when there was company, than when there was none. But he always aided
and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at
dinner—time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of gravy
to—day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.

A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed
the sermon with some severity, and intimated — in the usual hypothetical case
of the Church being “thrown open” — what kind of sermon he would have given
them. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that
he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill—chosen; which was the less
excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects “going about.”

“True again,” said Uncle Pumblechook. “You’ve hit it, sir!
Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their
tails. That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s
ready with his salt—box.” Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of
reflection, “Look at Pork alone. There’s a subject! If you want a subject, look
at Pork!”

“True, sir. Many a moral for the young,” returned Mr.
Wopsle; and I knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; “might be
deduced from that text.”

(“You listen to this,” said my sister to me, in a
severe parenthesis.)

Joe gave me some more gravy.

“Swine,” pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and
pointing his fork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name;
“Swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before
us, as an example to the young.” (I thought this pretty well in him who had
been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) “What is detestable in
a pig, is more detestable in a boy.”

“Besides,” said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me,
“think what you’ve got to be grateful for. If you’d been born a Squeaker——”

“He was, if ever a child was,” said my sister, most
emphatically.

Joe gave me some more gravy.

“Well, but I mean a four—footed Squeaker,” said Mr.
Pumblechook. “If you had been born such, would you have been here now? Not
you——”

“Unless in that form,” said Mr. Wopsle, nodding
towards the dish.

“But I don’t mean in that form, sir,” returned Mr.
Pumblechook, who had an objection to being interrupted; “I mean, enjoying
himself with his elders and betters, and improving himself with their
conversation, and rolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that?
No, he wouldn’t. And what would have been your destination?” turning on me
again. “You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the
market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to
you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm,
and with his right he would have tucked up his frock to get a penknife from out
of his waistcoat—pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your life.
No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it!”

Joe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.

“He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am,” said Mrs.
Hubble, commiserating my sister.

“Trouble?” echoed my sister; “trouble?” and then
entered on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and
all the acts of sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had
tumbled from, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I
had done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had
contumaciously refused to go there.

I think the Romans must have aggravated one another
very much, with their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they
were, in consequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle’s Roman nose so aggravated me, during
the recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it until he
howled. But, all I had endured up to this time, was nothing in comparison with
the awful feelings that took possession of me when the pause was broken which
ensued upon my sister’s recital, and in which pause everybody had looked at me
(as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation and abhorrence.

“Yet,” said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company
gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, “Pork — regarded as biled
— is rich, too; ain’t it?”

“Have a little brandy, uncle,” said my sister.

O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was
weak, he would say it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the
table under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.

My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with
the stone bottle, and poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The
wretched man trifled with his glass — took it up, looked at it through the
light, put it down — prolonged my misery. All this time, Mrs. Joe and Joe were
briskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight
by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature
finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink
the brandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable
consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times
in an appalling spasmodic whooping—cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he
then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating,
making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.

I held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I
didn’t know how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow.
In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and,
surveying the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down
into his chair with the one significant gasp, “Tar!”

I had filled up the bottle from the tar—water jug. I
knew he would be worse by—and—by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the
present day, by the vigour of my unseen hold upon it.

But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that
kitchen, wouldn’t hear the word, wouldn’t hear of the subject, imperiously
waved it all away with his hand, and asked for hot gin—and—water. My sister,
who had begun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in
getting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon—peel, and mixing them.
For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the
table, but clutched it now with the fervour of gratitude.

By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp
and partake of pudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of
pudding. The course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the
genial influence of gin—and—water. I began to think I should get over the day,
when my sister said to Joe, “Clean plates — cold.”

I clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and
pressed it to my bosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend
of my soul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was
gone.

“You must taste,” said my sister, addressing the
guests with her best grace, “You must taste, to finish with, such a delightful
and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook’s!”

The company murmured their compliments. Uncle
Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved well of his fellow—creatures, said —
quite vivaciously, all things considered — “Well, Mrs. Joe, we’ll do our best
endeavours; let us have a cut at this same pie.”

My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps
proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw
re—awakening appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble
remark that “a bit of savoury pork pie would lay atop of anything you could
mention, and do no harm,” and I heard Joe say, “You shall have some, Pip.” I
have never been absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror,
merely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could
bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and
ran for my life.

But, I ran no further than the house door, for there I
ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets: one of whom held
out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, “Here you are, look sharp, come on!”

A fly by imagination

And life passes so quickly...

Because literature is part of our history.

The main idea of this Blog is spread the habit of reading. Literature is part of our lives. When enter in the Literature world, we read better and we improve our though and imagination.I want, with this, divide a little of my dreams. Is to give opportunity to people read and know about works produced by ancient and contemporary writers, and mainly, myself to be insert in this wonderful world of the Letters.